Hunting the She-Cat Read Online Free PDF Page A

Their clothing was too much a barrier.
    “Remove your clothing.”
    The masculine command broke the spell
and aroused her painfully all at the same time. “No. God, no. The
door. Someone will come out here any moment, looking for
me.”
    “The first time we make love will be
fast and sharp, little female. No one will find us before we’ve
finished.”
    “Hah! That’s your erection
speaking.”
    He jerked her to him again, laughing,
his eyes sparkling with challenge. “Perhaps so. Truth is, at this
moment, I do not much care if your whole world watches
us.”
    He placed both hands on her waist and
lifted her up, then, mercilessly, he allowed her to slide along
him, chest to hips.
    “Mmmm,” she gasped, dropping her arms
on his shoulders as he held her off her feet, off the
floor.
    “Feel good? Wrap your long legs around
me.”
    When she did not respond, he demanded,
“Now.”
    “If you insist,” she whimpered.
“Arrogance.” She would teach him. Seductively, she climbed his
muscled hips, one leg then the other. Then repeated the action
again in reverse.
    “Good girl. Yes, that’s it
exactly.”
    With the flat of his hand on the cheek
of her butt, he pressed her closer.
    Unsure what she was doing, she claimed
his shoulders with her teeth, small nips that had him growling deep
in his chest. The sound was like great music.
    A voice came, just as she’d predicted.
“Yoo-hoo. Mish Mash. Where are you? I just saw you in the kitchen
just a few minutes ago. Misha?”
    It was Sala. Thank God for the
interruption because there was no stopping them otherwise. And God
help her this was a complete stranger ... he could be a
murderer.
    Misha tore herself from Lugar’s arms.
He lowered his head to his chest, his breathing as hard and labored
as hers.
    “I’m here, Sala. Out here on the
balcony.”
    “What ya doin’ out here in the damn
dark, girl?”
    “I’m … not …”
    “Oh, my, gosh!” She squinted. “My eyes
are adjusting. It’s him. It’s your Alpha dog, chicka.”
    “That would be cat,” Misha
corrected.
    “Enough,” Lugar whispered urgently for
her ears only. “Stop this talk. Outsiders cannot know what we are.
You said as much yourself,” he reminded her. His breath came hot at
her ear.
    Damn, he was right. “Touché,” she said
begrudgingly. She knew better than to say that. Knew better than
all of this crazy, wanton behavior. Knew better than fooling with
him for sure. What was she thinking, humping him in the darkness of
her balcony?
    “I’m coming … in. Sala. In.”
    Lugar took her by the upper arms,
pulled her to him, discreetly, or not so discreetly, covering his
front to hide his response from Sala.
    “What the hell?” Bronson’s voice came
from the doorway. He glared at Lugar. “Who the blazes are
you?”
    Misha knew she should run to Bronson.
She should be relieved at opportunity to escape Lugar’s clutches.
But she could not speak to save her. Her silly mind occupied itself
comparing the two males, quantifying the differences and they were
significant. Bronson was not coming out so well in contrast. He was
too fine-boned, too long and reedy. Too condescending and
unfriendly as he stared at Lugar.
    “I am Misha’s colleague,” Lugar said.
“Lugar Rova. An old friend of the -- uh, family.”
    “Where is that accent from? I can’t say
I recognize it.” Bronson offered his hand in a forced gesture. “I
travel a lot.”
    After an elongated moment, Lugar took
the hand and shook it awkwardly as if not accustomed to handshaking
in greeting. “I am from a small, obscure country in eastern
Europe.”
    Something about the answer told her
he’d practiced that line. The handshake was a surprise to him
though, she suspected. Hadn’t practiced that. Perhaps she imagined
the snarl of distaste for the contact on his chiseled
lips.
    After the handshake, Bronson stepped
nearer, offering his arm to her.
    Misha felt herself go cold and tense.
“Do not come any closer, Bronson,” she